As the sparrow falls it is noted
and the quality of life
is diminished by one.
Long ago the feathers were counted.
The color of the downy beast
was subtly painted into the rainbow.
A child is born
in the forgotten regions
of a world too busy to take note.
The borning is observed, however,
by the cosmic populace.
Its growth watched and shepherded
and when the child cries,
the heavens lament.
There is no least in quality or number.
Each beating heart is calculated
to keep a world intact.
Each blink of an eyelid
reason enough for the sun
to keep itself alive.
The coming together
and the going apart of each
is through a door
opening and closing
onto a portion of life, indissoluble.
Now it is here,
now gone from here, now it is here.
Disappearing from this place,
it takes form in another.
The sparrow sings in another tree
and his song is heard
by one who left the here
Where can we go and not be found?
(from Kiss The Moon)